


Mother, Mother, Stranger

by wyanmai



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26743891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyanmai/pseuds/wyanmai
Summary: In which Joanna Lannister survives Tyrion’s birth, but not before Tywin makes some quesitonable promises to the gods. Includes flashbacks.
Relationships: Joanna Lannister/Tywin Lannister
Comments: 10
Kudos: 69





	Mother, Mother, Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> This was...interesting. In my procrastination for my other writing, I went down a rabbit hole of clips from movies with a young Charles Dance, which of course lead me to thinking about young Tywin. At this point, there is literally no point to this except to indulge myself, but idk, I might decide to write this AU Lannister fic later. Please let me know your thoughts.

273 AC.

Tywin Lannister stood in the Sept at Casterly Rock, his legs rooted to the ground before the statue of the Mother, his body rigid as stone. In his arms, the pathetic creature made a gurgling sound, and he looked down at its deformed head, the little face scrunched in indignation, red as a beet. He shut his eyes against the abomination.

Looking back up at the lifeless statue, Tywin lowered himself to his knees before it and placed the infant on the ground.

He had never thought he'd paid attention to the way the twins had looked as new-borns, but even bundled in swaddling cloth, this creature was noticeably smaller than his other children had ever been. His third child. Tywin sneered.

They had showed him its deformed legs when they'd brought it out of the birthing chambers, and Tywin had felt the blood drain from his face in a cold rush, unsure if his shame and embarrassment overshadowed his disgust. 

_This_? Joanna had suffered through hours of screaming and blood and pain for this… _thing_?

But he should have known the day's misfortune would not end there. Just as he had waved his hand for them to take the infant away, a maid had all but stumbled into the room, her eyes lined with red. She curtsied, looking harried and distraught, and his insides were suddenly encrusted in ice.

"Milord, the maester says…says…"

"Spit it out, girl, before I have them throw you into the sea." Tywin was surprised his voice came out so steady. His whole body was trembling. .

The girl blanched, but swallowed and spoke.

"The maester says that Lady Joanna won't stop bleeding, milord. They're doing all they can, but…but there is a real danger…"

He had burst into the birthing chamber then, shoving aside the maids and midwives who protested the impropriety. His wife had been surrounded by the two maesters and the midwives he'd hired, all flitting around her like bees, working to save her life. There was a sheet draped over her waist and legs, stained with blood, and the air was rusty and sharp with it, despite the open windows.

Joanna lay in the bed, unconscious, her skin so pale he could almost see through it. Her head flopped to one side, and her golden hair stuck to her damp neck and temples.

She looked like she could be dead already if not for the shallow rise of her chest, and the thought made bile rise in his throat.

Tywin was at once overwhelmed with the urge to rush to her, to touch her and hold her, and see that she woke and smiled at him with her sea-green eyes again, but he bit his tongue and held himself back.

He knew nothing of childbirth, and less of healing. Her condition was grave—anyone with eyes could see that—and he had enough brains to know he would only be in the way. Instead, he caught the arm of a maid who was carrying rags out of the room, startling a yelp from the girl.

"When the maester has a moment to breath, tell him—you tell him that if things are dire, I want to see my wife before she—I want to be here if—"

Frustratingly, it was now he who had lost his tongue. He simply could not let the word of death leave his lips, as if, irrationally, should he say the word aloud it would come true. To her credit, the girl curtsied and nodded.

"Yes, Milord, I understand. I'll tell him."  
"I'll be in the Sept if they need me."

And then he had swooped into the nursey, picked up the newly swaddled creature, and marched himself to the Sept.

Tywin had never prayed to the Mother in his life. Naturally, he'd never had the need. One did not need mercy to rule the Seven Kingdoms, and he'd been too young and secure in his life to worry about Joanna's seeming infertility the first few years of their marriage.

Then she'd given birth to the twins, and her failure to conceive again in the intervening years seemed no real misfortune. He had an heir for Casterly Rock, and a daughter who, with careful planning, would be queen. Perhaps most men wanted their homes filled with children, but Tywin did not mind. He did not like children. Two was plenty, and for years it seemed nothing could go amiss in his life. For years he hadn't felt the need to pray to anything at all.

But now. Now it was as if the castle of a life he'd built was crumbling before his eyes. If Joanna did not make it…

On his knees, Tywin buried his face in his hands. _Please_ , he prayed, not even minding that he'd never begged for anything in his life. _Please, give her the strength to live, save her._ He felt no relief at those words, only despair. Again, he looked up at Her cold, empty eyes, then back down at the fussing creature. No, this was wrong. The Mother would not hear his prayers. On his feet again, he picked up the bundle, light as air, and after a moment of hesitation, approached the Stranger.

Once more he placed the infant on the stone floor, and eased himself to his knees. He hadn't known precisely why he'd brought the thing along with him—he had been running on pure impulse all morning—but now it became clear.

"Once," he said to the statue, his voice hoarse and clogged. "I've prayed to you, just the once, and you did not fail me then."

O~O~O~O~O

It had been nearly ten years ago—the year he had married his wife. It was that year that had dispelled any notions of friendship with the newly-crowned Aerys. Tywin still remembered the black, icy rage that had frightened even himself.

He had seen, from the moment Cousin Joanna arrived at court, that his boyhood friend the crown prince had lusted after her. It was this observation that had made the first crack appearin their steel-packed friendship, but Tywin never thought he would go so far as to lay hands on her.

And yet, even the liberties he'd taken with her on their wedding night Tywin had clenched his jaw and tried to let go. Joanna had said she'd barely noticed what Aerys did, what with all the hands on her during the bedding ritual, and Tywin, young and naïve, had tried to dampen his anger.

But Aerys had not stopped there. He had kept up his lecherous looks and lewd jokes alluding to his wife, and each time Tywin found it more difficult to tame his anger. Joanna had tried to make jest of it, telling him time and again that she could handle the king, and if not, then she could at least avoid his attentions.

She had smiled her confident smile, mocking the king's pathetic lechery, and rolled her sea-green eyes, all sardonic and dismissive. Tywin had let himself be lulled into a sense of security, had fooled himself into thinking the king's attentions merely a nuisance, like a flea bite or a wandering fly.

And then…then, one afternoon, he had returned to his chambers to find Joanna sitting in a washtub, her face ashen. She barely moved her head when he approached.The soapy water was ice-cold, and he saw that her skin had been scrubbed nearly raw. Purple bruises bloomed on her shoulders and arms, and when she turned to look up at him, her dull eyes had told him all he needed to know.

"Aerys," he had whispered. It was not a question, and she did not need to nod. Black dots appeared before his eyes. A savage beast rose and snarled in his chest, demanding murder, demanding pain, and Tywin had felt a calm, taut sort of purpose.

He was halfway to the door, his hand on the small dagger strapped to his belt, before he realized he had moved.

Joanna called him back. To this day, Tywin was sure that, had she not said his name then, he would have marched into the king's chambers and butchered Aerys with that dagger. Gouged out his eyes for daring to look at his wife. Severed his hands for daring to touch her. Cut off his cock for this final, beastly act. Sliced open his chest and stuffed his heart into his mouth.

But Joanna had called him back, a jagged light in her eyes. She stood up in the tub then, rivulets of soapy water running over the grotesque flowers marring her skin.

"I did not let him finish," she said, her voice flat with empty triumph. "There won't be a babe, and he will not be visiting a woman's bed for many sennights."

Tywin let the knowledge wash over him, wondering, dimly, why he felt no relief. That would come later, along with the fierce pride in his little lioness, who had not stopped fighting and had made the monster suffer, but here, in his chambers, all he felt was numb hatred.

Joanna stepped out of the tub, the sound of water splashing and dripping to the floor piercing the crowded silence of the room. She walked towards him, and he wanted to reach out for her, but his hand was stiff, his nails cutting into his palm and refusing to withdraw.

The jagged light was still there, and she did not shy from his gaze. Joanna never shied from anything, and now she stood before him, looking up, eyes hard.

"Kill him today, kill him next year, or don't kill him at all. It matters little what you do. I trust you to avenge me. Just make him suffer."

"That is what I am going to do," he'd ground out, but she reached out and pressed her damp hand into his open doublet, her palm on his chest. The tiny sharpness of her nails dug into his skin, and something uncomfortably close to lust cut through the humming black haze.

"No," she said, "not just now. Now I want you."

Oh yes, it was certainly lust, and Tywin did not know if lusting for his wife in her state should bring him shame if she was willing.

"Joanna…" he heard himself say, though he made no move to step away.

"I want you," she repeated, and her voice bore no uncertainty. "I want you to rid my body of his touch. I want you to fuck me so hard I can't remember who I am."

Tywin had never been one to dwell on matters of honour and shame. Principles and the abstract faded into insignificance before reality, and the reality now was that Joanna stood naked before him, need in her every breath.

He took his wife to bed and did not leave her until the morning, his icy anger melting into a raging fire that took all night to sate.

Despite Joanna's hard eyes and sharp words, she had slept clutching him tighter than ever before, drawing him to her with a desperation not in her character. In the hours of dawn, he slipped from their bed, careful not to disturb her, and made his way to the Great Sept.

He hadn't known what led him there, but the murderous fury had been diluted with reason in the early light hours, replaced with a hard sense of purpose.

He dropped to his knees before the Stranger, the lord of death and the unknown. He stared at His cloaked face, at the skull in his hands, and spoke low into the silence.

"I would not pray if I wanted him dead. I would simply kill him. I do not want him dead, not now. The realm cannot stand it, and it would be too easy. No, Stranger, I want him to suffer. Make him suffer, make him fear. Make him rue the day he ever set his filthy eyes on my wife, and I will build you the grandest sanctuary Westeros has ever seen."

O~O~O~O~O

Tywin had not really believed his prayers would do anything at all. His visit to the Sept helped balance his mind, and when he left, he channelled his not insignificant will to acting around the king as if nothing was amiss, while spending every free hour planning ways to make him pay.

The grand maester was already in his pay, and it was easy to draw out the damage Joanna had done to Aerys' body. To prolong his pain. If the kingdom had not needed heirs, Tywin would have been tempted to make a eunuch of Aerys.

Yet before he set into motion any other plans for revenge, the king began having nightmares. They had been alone in his chambers, discussing the merits of a campaign against the Stepstones, when Aerys had confided in him that a night did not go by when he was not tormented by strange, horrifying dreams. Moaning maidens with bloody pits for eyes. People set on fire, their flesh melting, their fat sizzling on their bones. A moon later, Aerys began hearing ugly voices whispering behind his ear, telling him stories of plots and treachery.

The king's face became lined with strain, and purple circles began to fill under his eyes. His skin slowly lost its healthy colour, and he laughed hardly ever now, his motions always betraying skittish fear.

It was then that Tywin had known his prayers were being answered. It was shocking, really, because he had never been inclined to believe the gods did anything for individual people, but this was proof, clear as day. Oh, it was common knowledge that the Targaryens were all prone to madness, but for Aerys' condition to set on so quickly and at such a time? Will of the Stranger, surely.

And so, he'd sent ravens home to the Westerlands, using his allowance and pay from his position as Hand to begin construction on a lavish sanctuary for the silent sisters. The Stranger had given him what he wanted, and Lannisters always paid their debts.

O~O~O~O~O

Tywin stared up at the Stranger's hood in his Sept, and it was as if he could see eyes through the stone, coolly watching his pathetic, begging form. But it mattered little and less how pathetic he was. A sort of madness was settling in, a desperate mania brought on by cloying fear.

Every bit of joy Tywin Lannister had ever experienced in his life and every good thing to happen to him had been because of Joanna Lannister. If she was gone, there would be nothing left of him but a brittle shell.

"I would do anything if you give her back to me. Anything. I've proven my word to you once before. Let her live. Do not take her from me, and I will build you a hundred sanctuaries, each grander than the last. I—I will give my daughter to you as a bride, if you wish,and other daughters if we should have more. If you wish it, I would kill this deformed…thing…as an offering. And my other children, too. I have become fond of them, but if it is sacrifice you want, I would give them up."

He sounded mad, even to his own ears, but Tywin did not know the ways of the Stranger. He'd heard of gods in the Free Cities that demanded human sacrifice through fire. What if He wanted the same?

Tywin could do it. He was certain. It would no doubt damn his soul, to commit this most hateful act of kinslaying, but he would do anything it took to keep her with him.

How long he knelt on the cold stone, bargaining and promising, he did not know. The little beast was surprisingly quiet, making only occasional gurgling sounds, until finally the light outside changed from gold to orange to violet. He did not know if his prayers had been heard, had no idea if the Stranger had accepted any of his offers. But surely, if He wanted a human sacrifice, Tywin would see some indication?

In the gloaming, he carried the creature back to the nursery. No one had come to fetch Tywin. There was comfort in that. Joanna had not left him, not yet.

Nonetheless, he approached the birthing chambers with a hard fist around his heart. Breathing was onerous, and Tywin did not know if he wanted to charge to her side or draw out the moment before he learned her fate. The corridor was quiet now. Scullery maids carrying baskets and basins stopping to curtsey as he passed. His own footsteps were too loud on the stones, but his heart thumped even louder, beating painfully in his stomach.

The door of the birthing chamber stood ajar, and he pushed it open slowly. Maester Creylen, who had been at the Rock all Tywin's life, was sitting at a folding desk, writing something in a book. Three midwives tended Joanna, wiping her brow and cleansing the room with burning herbs.

His wife lay still in the bed, her eyes still closed, her skin still an unnatural, powdery white. Her head leaned to the other side of the pillow now, meaning that she had at least stirred, if not awakened. That was good, surely.

At the sound of his entrance, all four looked up, but he ignored them and walked to the bed. Sitting beside her sleeping form, Tywin picked up her cold little hand, his thumb absentmindedly running along the ridges of her knuckles. With his other hand, he smoothed away the hair that had stuck to her forehead. In her sleep, she seemed to feel his caress, turning her head just a touch towards him.

His heart nearly leapt out of his chest. He had not realized how he'd needed even this tiny sign of life.

He looked up at the maester then, and Creylen nodded.

"Lady Joanna is in stable condition now, my lord. The bleeding has mostly ceased, and if it does not start up again tomorrow, she is out of danger. Maester Rodran has gone to the apothecary to make a blood-replenishing tonic."

The relief was like jumping off a cliff into the sea, suddenly hot, suddenly cold. The air suddenly turned to water, with the warmth of the sun scattering around his eyes.

 _Please,_ he begged the Stranger. _Please, let this be good news. Let her be well tomorrow, and tell me what you would have me do. I'll do anything. Anything you ask._

O~O~O~O~O

Joanna did not bleed the next day. Tywin, for whom sleep was obviously out of the question, had sat by her bed all night and all day in case she worsened, but she did not.

The twins were brought in to see their mother. While Cersei held her hand and stared, as if struck dumb by her mother's sleeping face, Jaime had asked him if she was going to die. Tywin had wanted to strike him for even saying the word, but Joanna would have disapproved, and she was sleeping right there, after all.

Instead he only glared until the boy shrank back, but it was not he who spoke.

"Don't be stupid, Jaime," said Cersei, her eyes still fixed on her mother. "She will wake up soon." And that was the end of it.

As the sun set once more over the blue horizon, Tywin slumped in his chair as if he had marched up Casterly Rock carrying chains that were now lifted. She was going to live. She was going to stay. She had yet to waken, but the maesters assured Tywin that this was normal after so much trauma and blood loss. She would be up in a few days, they promised, and Tywin had reluctantly returned to his study.

No matter Joanna's delicate condition, Tywin still had a kingdom to run, though every day his position as Hand seemed try his patience and drag harder at his feet. Every day he cursed the king, and even knowing Aerys was tormented constantly by the dreams and the voices did little these days to temper Tywin's hatred. Tywin had waited, bided his time and his rage all this time, but the madman had had the _gall_ to refuse Cersei the previous year, not to mention his comments to his wife.

_"You nursed them both yourself? Tell me my lady, has that not ruined those pretty tits you had?"_

Tywin could still see the blood drain from Joanna's face, the memories of a decade ago no doubt vivid as ever in her mind. He had felt that familiar fury then, the blinding desire to cut Aerys into little pieces, slowly, watching his dirty blood pool on the flagstones. It was only later that the insult and humiliation had settled in too, and he had broken several chairs that night.

The king had not allowed him to resign, yet even Aerys could not deny him his "duties" as Lord Paramount, so Tywin had packed up his family and come back to the Rock, refusing to give a specific date of return. It was not as if the king had any leverage against him.

Now, as he sent and received ravens, wrote his missives and read over reports, his mind would not cease from straying to his good fortune that the little beast had been born at the Rock. Oh, news would spread. There was no hiding such an abomination, but at the very least Tywin would not have to hear the talk with his own ears for quite some time.

Before he retired, he once again visited the Sept. His lone candle cast slender shadows on the polished marble floors, and they flickered with the flame, like macabre spirits dancing to the silent melody of the night. He stood before the Stranger for a long time, even tried kneeling again, but nothing came to him. He had promised a great many things in his desperation the day before, but surely, he was not meant to do all of them. He could not even remember all the things he had said, and besides, if the Stranger really wanted the blood of his children, there would be a sign. The Seven did not take kindly to kinslaying.

"I will do whatever you ask," he said into the darkness. "Only give me a sure sign."

When nothing was forthcoming, Tywin sighed, then made his way back to his cold chamber. The next morning, he sent for his architects and craftsmen, to begin the building of another sanctuary for the silent sisters in Lannisport.

O~O~O~O~O

Joanna Lannister woke to the world feeling as if she had been trampled by an army's worth of horses. Her limbs ached at even the smallest movement, and it was as if her stomach was in the middle of turning itself inside out, she was so sick. Her lips felt like sandpaper, cracked and stiff, and her tongue was so dry that it too ached.

In a haze, her handmaidens had come gathered, chattering and dispatching a messenger to Tywin, thanking the Mother for her recovery and plying her with water and broth and medicines. The maesters came and went, asked her what she felt, instructed her handmaidens on her care. She would be very sore for a sennight at least, and the blood loss must be carefully restored through medicines and diet.

Through it all, the only thing Joanna said was that she wished to see her child—where was her child—bring my new child to me—but each servant seemed to avoid her commands, instead continuing on with their ramblings.

Finally, she'd had enough. If she had been stronger, she would have hurled her glass across the room. As it was, she set it on the tray with a loud _clank_.

"My lady, please, you are still very weak," chided the wrinkled Maester Creylen. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Unless my child is dead, Creylen, I want to see him."

Another hesitation, and Joanna felt at once submerged in ice. Until she had said those words, she had not even entertained the possibility that her new child was not perfect and healthy and alive. And yet, babes often died after birth, and with how long she had laboured…

"He's just with the nursemaid. I'll bring them right away, milady."

Through her roaring relief, she could hardly hear the maester's next words, and it was not until the nurse stood in the doorway holding a tiny bundle in her arms that Joanna noticed something was not entirely right.

"Is he truly alright, Maester?" she asked as the nurse approached the bed. "I carried him to term. Surely he shouldn't be so tin—oh…"

That was when she saw him, his large forehead, his sunken cheekbones. The swaddling was loose, and he yawned, waving a short little arm up to his face.

For a moment she did not know exactly what she was seeing, but then it settled, the knowledge leaden and terrifying. She reached out a trembling finger and stroked his downy hair. Then she turned to the maester.

"He is a dwarf?" She asked it as a question, but she did not need an answer. She had seen dwarves on the streets in King's Landing. There was no doubt her babe had been cursed with the affliction, and her heart was tearing in two.

All his life, he would be mocked. Be scorned. Be bullied and derided and called a curse from the gods. He had only seen a few days on this earth, had done nothing yet with his life, and yet he was bound to receive so much of its ugliness. Her poor, poor child.

O~O~O~O~O

Joanna had dismissed the servants after she imbibed all the maesters' concoctions to their satisfaction, and was patting her son slowly as she sang to him when she heard footsteps at the door. She looked, and there Tywin stood, still in his riding boots and a heavy tunic.

She smiled instinctively, but the smile wavered a little as she saw his eyes dart down to her son before returning to her face, his expression blank the entire time. She bit her lip, at a rare loss for words, but he spoke first.

"Forgive me,” he said, sounding almost dazed. “Uh—There was an accident in one of the mines yesterday, and I needed to inspect the damage in person. I had meant to be here when you woke."

Joanna frowned.

"Is it serious? Are there casualties?"

He shook his head absently, closing the door behind him.

"Some structures fell, and the chief engineers disagreed on how to rebuild, so I had to mediate. I will tell you more when you're stronger."

She nodded, then clutched her son a little tighter. How strange it was, unable to find words before Tywin? She had always been so sure of herself with him, so certain that even if she blundered, she was the one person he would not criticize or demean, but now…what would she say of this new babe? What could she say? Did she apologize? But she was not sorry, not at all, for this sweet child's existence, and she had never outright lied to her husband.

And yet she saw it, that flicker of disgust that had passed in his eyes just then, and she could not truly blame him. He was only a man, and a prouder man she had never met. In his mind, her own fears for the babe's reception would be multiplied thousandfold, and she knew too well how he loathed to be mocked—how he _demanded_ respect for their family—and the bloody price he levied in those who had dared laugh at a Lannister.

It seemed she asked too much that he look upon this child as he did the twins. Joanna remembered hearing about Castamere at court. It had been the only time Tywin had frightened her.

Again, however, she did not have the chance to speak. As Tywin stared at her, something seemed to break in him, and in two strides he was at her side, his hands pressing her free one to his lips, his breath shaking as he kissed her fingers again and again.

A little shocked, but not averse to this turn of events, Joanna curled her fingers around his.

"Tywin…"

"Never scare me so again, Joanna Lannister. Do you hear me? Never."

"Oh…I…" She opened her mouth to answer, then shut it again, dumb.

They had known each other since they were children, and she could count on one hand the times he'd said her full name like that, all formal and serious. The first had been the day he'd asked her to be his wife. It had been a done thing, in truth, but he'd still asked, still made it appear like she had a choice. If she had been hesitant before, his earnest look—so unlike his usually shrewd, stony expression—when he had tucked her hair behind her ear and asked for her hand would have decided it for her. But truly, she'd never wished to marry another.

The second, of course, was their wedding in the Sept, and the third during their single colossal fight only two moons into their marriage. It had been over some law or other on which he had been advising the king—a reason foolish beyond belief—and neither could really recall what had set things off.

She had shouted and cursed at him, her temper flaring, and she'd riled him up so much that he had roared right back at her, louder than she'd ever heard him speak. Yet, when she'd made to leave their bedchamber in a huff, determined to spend the night with her handmaidens, he'd snapped his head around so sharply the air swished.

"Don't you leave this room, Joanna Lannister," he had growled, his voice raw and rutted, so unlike him. "Neither you or I get to leave, not ever."

They had resolved the quarrel right then, neither sleeping until the early hours, and had never fought so again.

And now, here was the fourth. It took some moments for Joanna to realize precisely his meaning. He had truly feared she would die, she realized with a little amazement, and it looked to have shaken him to the core.

"Oh, Tywin," she said, offering him a small smile. "I'm alright. I'd never leave you, not now, when we have children and so many years ahead of us."

His lips were pressed in a thin line, and she noticed for the first time the dark circles under his eyes, the lines of strain around his mouth. She extracted her hand and pressed it against his beloved face.

For a moment his eyes closed, and he leaned into her palm. Warmth bloomed in her chest as she watched him. Perhaps, then, he was not so angry about the babe. Perhaps all this tension and gravity were only the after-effects of fear for her life.

"Good," he finally said, fixing his pale green eyes on her face again. "Good."

O~O~O~O~O

"Have you held your son yet?"

Tywin felt himself stiffen at his wife's words, but managed a tight nod. She narrowed her sharp green eyes, not in anger or suspicion, but with that considering look that made the hairs on his neck stand on end.

"Tywin, he will face scorn from the world. Would you have the hatred begin with you?"

"Joanna, I…he is not…right, and I can't bear to—"

"Certainly, he is not like a normal babe, but what of it? He has ten fingers and ten toes, two ears and two eyes, just like any child. He will not be dumb or deaf or deficient in any of his senses. You've said yourself that the dwarfs who roam King's Landing are no more lackwits than you or I. My son won't ever be a warrior, but have you not maintained that a sharp mind is worth ten blades?"

He clenched his fists, then released them, forcing himself to look at the little creature. Joanna had a natural talent for turning his words against him. At her expectant gaze, he reached out and gingerly took the bundle from her hands. To his surprise, he seemed heavier than merely a few days ago, and he said as much out loud before he thought to stop himself.

She laughed, and he looked up to see her eyes sparkling.

"You see? Already he is a healthy child, and already you begin to know him."

Tywin looked down again, studying his distorted little face with a perverse sort of fascination.

"He would be seen as a curse upon this house," he finally said, lamely. "They will laugh behind their hands."

Joanna scoffed.  
"Naturally they will talk. They will laugh, and worse, they will say I have been a cursed, or that I must have bedded demons to birth such a monster."

"Joanna, they wouldn't da—"

"Yes, they would. Your vassals, the other great houses, the smallfolk…all will talk, and you cannot enact retribution on everybody. It is too late, either way. People will know about him no matter if you love him or cast him into the sea, and even if you punished or scorned me for bringing shame to our house—"

"Joanna Lannister!"

She flinched, then looked up at him, eyes wide, brows knit. There was fear there, he noted, baffled; fear and worry and a hesitation he did not at all like to see directed at him. Did she really think he would blame her for this? Did she know him not at all?

He laid the bundle beside her pillow and took her hands in his once more.

"Silly girl," he said, almost a whisper, and leaned in to kiss her brow, her cheek, her mouth. It was a soft kiss, comforting and absent of fire, and when he drew back, he smiled. Tentatively, she smiled back.

"You are not at fault. You could never be at fault."

Her eyes searched his face for some moments more, something settling in their depths, and then she turned back and picked up the infant.

"I love him, Tywin. He is of my flesh and blood, and we made him, you and I. I love him like I love Jaime and Cersei, and I will not let him be jeered at and shamed."

"No. No one will mock and shame him. He…he is a Lannister."

"Good. Don't forget it. And you will love him too, Tywin. Perhaps not now, but you will."

Tywin Lannister looked at the oddly shaped head above the swaddling cloth, the features, ever so slightly distorted. Naturally he would not tell Joanna about his promises the night before, about what he had been willing to do. Might still be willing to do. A Lannister always pays his debts, and for her life, Tywin owed the Stranger the greatest debt of all.

But he had been willing to kill his children to save her. How difficult would it be to show some affection to his strange little son, so long as it brought a smile to her face?


End file.
